Your Life Is A Story
by hollyhock and iris
Summary: 50 good-byes Hermione remembers: or, a story of farewells. For teddylupin-snape's '50 Ways To Say Goodbye' challenge on HPFC. 1: Baby Hermione feels pride.


**I. ****_Birth_**

Baby Hermione feels pride.

* * *

'Three-point-six kilograms, forty-eight centimetres. Congratulations, Mrs Granger, you have a healthy baby girl.'

You've arrived. The first voice you hear after you calm down is this one. Your eyelashes are sticking together by some wet, sticky force of nature, but you're sure the nurse who's holding you close to her is the dirty-blonde girl with that really high-pitched laugh . . . _Ah. There it is_. She's laughing at how your tuft of hair is tickling her chest, but you don't think you'll be ticklish, so you don't see the point of that laugh. But your parents are laughing too, Mummy's mezzo-soprano mingling with Daddy's tenor, so you pull up your eyelids forcefully and watch silently. It's your way of agreeing. You _are_ a newborn baby, after all.

Bundle of joy, they say. Beautiful baby girl. Looks like her mum. If only she could hear us. . . . Well, you can hear them, but it's not like you can actually tell them so, can you? Instead, you silently bask in this new-found glory, in the way the man and the two women are fussing over you while a figure in a white coat jots down something on a board, and flex your fingers under your bind to keep them on their toes. Being late by two weeks may have been a good thing for your case-getting to develop that cantaloupe in your skull is always a plus-but that meant you got less time to enjoy /this/. Then again, you're not in the arms you want to be in, and these ones are holding you too tightly, so maybe this bundle of joy could have used more time in what you affectionately nickname the cavernous abyss.

Hmm. The nurse's grip only tightens as she chatters away to your parents, and you've lost enough air to your brain that you don't really care what she's saying. You just want to be out. This is a problem: how are you supposed to get yourself out of here? You open your eyes wide, and the nurse's cleavage comes into full focus. Joy. Well, you're thirsty, anyway, so you whack her chest with your arm, and-well, that'll do it. You're in another set of arms, but these ones are nicer, more hairy and less tight, more warm and less hot. You snuggle back in and spit air, thinking of how to escape with this tall, hairy man and what appears to be your mum. It's your way of saying goodbye. You _are_ a newborn baby, after all.

'Okay, that's all. Granger family, you're free to go home. You have a remarkable little girl!' says the white coat. Then, you're lifted.

Wait. You're _leaving_? You're _going home_? Whew. A reprieve! But you'll miss this place, with its white-washed-walls and smothering nurses. You settle in and curl up your hands near your face as the gentle up-and-down thump of your father's footfalls bounces you out of the room. You turn back, and, for some reason, the woman who held you captive-the lonely blonde lady who just wants to be loved-and the head nurse in the maternity ward who's had too much experience handling babies-frowns. Frowns at your little figure for poking her chest for an escape route, frowns at the doctor who let the perfect baby get away, frowns at life and everything in it. You really wish you could turn this 'tapping-into-dramatic-adult-emotions' thing off.

You're in the waiting room of the hospital for a split second, where you pass a little observation room with other babies in. They look peaceful enough; you suppose they've been spared from carrying around your hypersensitivity. Then you swivel your head just so-you can't go far, anyway, since your cheek is pushed quite comfortably against a flat chest-and the nurse is back. Your bindings loosen, and your mum comes over to you. She pulls out one pudgy little arm, to your great displeasure, but with hypersensitivity comes self-control, so you bite your tiny tongue. 'Wave good-bye, little Hermione! Wave good-bye!' She moves your hand back and forth, and you scoff silently, burying your head. Well, you start to, anyway, until you see the blonde nurse _smiling._ /Good-bye,/ you gurgle, softly, and then you shut up for the rest of the night. It's your way of making peace and happiness, for once. You _are_ a newborn baby, after all.


End file.
